This episode was recorded back in 2022 when the podcast first started. Since then, Laura has continued her work with hundred of mothers and also her own self-discovery, so I feel that an update of motherhood and life from Laura is needed here - watch this space!

In this episode, Sam is joined by Laura Greenwood, psychotherapist, mother, and founder of her own private practice in Yorkshire, for an honest conversation about the early years of motherhood.

Laura shares what it was really like becoming a mother to her son Owen, who struggled with allergies, colic and reflux from birth and how quickly the instant bond she expected gave way to overwhelm, isolation and a creeping sense that she wasn't meant to be a mother.

Having lost both of her parents at eighteen, Laura talks candidly about how motherhood forced long-buried grief back to the surface and how a later miscarriage, paradoxically, became one of the most healing experiences of her life.

She and Sam talk about matrescence, the pressure to perform contentment as a new mother, the fear of losing loved ones, learning to trust her own instincts over other people's expectations, and what it actually looks like, in practical, everyday terms, to build a life that lets her thrive as a mother, a partner, and a person.

In this episode:

• Laura's early experience of motherhood, and why breastfeeding struggles and medical battles left her feeling dismissed
• Why the early monotony of newborn care was harder than any high-pressure job she'd had
• Discovering the concept of matrescence, and how it changed everything
• Processing the resurfaced grief of losing both parents at eighteen
• How a later miscarriage helped her finally grieve her parents properly
• Anxiety, intrusive thoughts, and the fear of losing the people she loves
• What thriving actually looks like day to day, boundaries, self-employment, and doing things her own way, even when others don't understand
• Laura's message to her younger, overwhelmed, newly postpartum self

**Sam:** Hello and welcome back to another episode of the Podcast. I'm absolutely delighted to be joined today by Laura Greenwood, who joins us from Yorkshire in the UK. Hi Laura, it's great to have you here.

**Laura:** Hi Sam, really lovely to be on here. I've been so excited for this conversation — partly because I think the idea behind this podcast is amazing, but also because I get to chat with you, my lovely friend. What could be better?

**Sam:** Oh, bless you, thank you so much. Right — we're going to dive straight in and ask about your entrance into motherhood, and how that was for you.

**Laura:** Yeah. We'd had a bit of a discussion before coming on today about what we might talk about, and I actually went back to some journal entries from when I was in the thick of it — because it's so true that once time passes, you forget how challenging it really was. People further along in their motherhood journey will say to you, "enjoy every moment, it's amazing, it's wonderful" — and I think they've forgotten the really challenging bits. My son is three now, and I'm already coming out of that "this was really hard" phase myself. So I wanted to go back over my journals to remind myself how far I've come.

I remember, really early in motherhood, struggling. As soon as that initial rush of oxytocin and love passed through me, I felt the real magnitude of this new life — and felt quite overwhelmed by it. My son, Owen, was a really unsettled baby. We now know some of the reasons why — he had allergies, and he was very colicky and refluxy. He was clearly super uncomfortable, so he was really challenging — and a lot of babies are, but I remember thinking, gosh, this is really hard.

Breastfeeding was one of those things — such a challenging time for so many mothers. I went into motherhood thinking, if I can breastfeed, I will; if it doesn't work out, I'm happy to formula feed. But because it started off well — the midwives told me how well he was putting on weight — it became quite quickly, really challenging. I now know it was because he was reacting to allergens through my milk, and he really struggled with it, and then I struggled as a result.

I felt this push-pull to persevere, because I'd already done it — so why couldn't I keep doing it, or do it well? I was surrounded by friends who were breastfeeding so effortlessly, and I wanted to do the best by my son. The medical professionals around me were all saying "keep going, keep going" — very much at the detriment of myself, and of Owen, who was really struggling. There was this constant push-pull of "what is the right decision here?"

There was a real theme throughout my early motherhood of battling with medical professionals — feeling like it was a constant fight to get anything either of us needed. And I became really aware of how mothers are dismissed by society. I was essentially the same person — I looked the same, I'd been very professionally driven, a respected, ambitious professional, admired by others for my drive. Then I became a mother, and I was just seen as "another anxious, complaining mother." I felt like I'd become invisible as an individual — just seen as another mother.

It still makes me really angry, how mothers are dismissed — of course, because of the physical and hormonal changes we go through. Our brains and bodies are designed to be overly anxious, because we're designed to protect our babies — it's an evolutionary thing. And I feel like this part of us that's designed to help us be the best mother we can be is almost used against us. Like, "oh, she's off again." That really frustrated me.

I remember feeling in limbo — quite quickly within motherhood, longing for my old life, but also not wanting my old life. I was a mother, I knew that, and while it was challenging, I didn't want to give it up. But I craved space and quiet more than I ever had in my life. I craved reckless nights out dancing with my girlfriends, lounging hungover on the sofa watching Grey's Anatomy with no responsibilities. I'd crave time away from Owen — but then I couldn't really get it, because you're up in the night, too tired anyway. And when I did get time away, I'd miss him terribly, then come back to overwhelming, unbearable crying, this poor little man so uncomfortable with his allergies, and I'd want to go back out again. This real limbo land — I didn't know who I was anymore, and I wasn't sure who I wanted to be either.

I was so naive before he was born about the realities of caring for a newborn. There wasn't a baby in my family — I had no real experience of looking after one — and I honestly assumed mothering would come naturally, that I'd fall into this next stage of life and it would fit like a glove. How wrong I was. But it felt like it was working like that for everyone else — like they all fit into their new role effortlessly. The meaning I took from that was: clearly I was never meant to be a mother. I felt like I was play-acting, playing a role that wasn't designed for me.

The monotony, the repetitiveness — I really struggled with that. I couldn't believe how simple caring for a newborn actually is, in terms of the tasks involved — but it was the hardest thing I'd ever done. I'd come from using my brain constantly, prioritising myself, managing high-pressure situations, and now I was faced with nappies, sleep schedules, feeding — that's it. It felt like Groundhog Day, every single day, and I found that really difficult.

Before going on maternity leave, other mothers told me, "you won't want to come back to work — you'll love it, you'll want to extend your leave and take as much time as you can with your child." I didn't feel like that at all. I really missed work, and I couldn't wait to get back. I think being off, out of that world, made me realise how much my work — my role — mattered to me, how much it was part of who I was. And again, everyone had told me I wouldn't want to go back — so what did that say about me as a mother? Clearly I wasn't meant to be one, because this wasn't how it was supposed to feel.

I remember trying to find my people — thinking, if everyone else seems to have it fitting like a glove, maybe they're play-acting too. Maybe those people who said I wouldn't want to go back to work were just some people, not all people. I tried to find common ground, drip-feeding bits of honesty to some mum friends. I remember one conversation — the boring, early-motherhood chat about feeding and nappies — and I said, "it's just so boring, isn't it?" I could see the tumbleweed roll past. I thought, oh my God, it's just me.

I felt so isolated, so alone — and then guilty, thinking, what have I done, bringing my son into the world with a mother who clearly wasn't meant to be one? I felt alone amongst other mums, and just alone in general. There's nothing like motherhood — and I know this now, through my work with mothers — to resurface old wounds. Whatever you've functioned with for years, no problem, will come up when you're thrust into the stress and uncertainty of becoming a mother.

I lost both my parents when I was eighteen. I'd felt like I'd dealt with it, but I became aware early in motherhood that I hadn't — that I'd pushed it down, and my grief resurfaced. It felt like I'd lost them all over again, because there were so many questions I only realised I wanted to ask once I became a mother myself: Did you find it hard becoming a parent? Is it normal to feel like this? How did you manage in these situations? How was I as a baby? I couldn't ask those questions. I felt like I'd lost them all over again — lost my lineage, lost any sense of their experience of being parented, and of parenting me. I didn't know where I fit in that lineage. Their experiences might have been very similar to mine, and I would never be able to ask and have it answered. That was really difficult.

I felt jealous of everyone else's relationships with their parents, and the support that brought them. My grief had resurfaced, Owen's allergies were really challenging, and my husband and I were doing this in complete isolation. It felt like a really lonely place to be.

**Sam:** Laura, I can really hear that, and have some understanding — obviously I haven't lost my parents, but coming into new motherhood, being so vulnerable, questioning everything and everyone... I appreciate some people are estranged from their parents, or don't have that connection for whatever reason, and how that must add to the isolation of how you were feeling. A couple of questions on that: you said you thought you'd dealt with the grief of your parents before having Owen, and then it resurfaced. Had you thought much about that beforehand, about what it might mean? Did it take you by surprise?

**Laura:** Completely, yes. I was — and still am, to an extent — someone who felt very in control. I now know that was one of my coping strategies: okay, we'll get on with it, push it down, push it away, crack on with life. So it really did take me by surprise. My husband James and I had some really practical conversations — he's also lost his mother, so between us we have no elder mothers in the family to draw on. We talked a lot about how we'd manage — how would I get time for me, how would he get time for him. We went into it very aware that we didn't have our parents, and that there was no denying that reality.

But when it actually came to it, nothing can really prepare you for how it's going to make you feel. I remember a real sense of loss and sadness, and the injustice of it — that these wonderful relationships other mums had with their own mothers, now evolved into grandparent relationships, was never something I was going to have, and Owen was never going to have his grandparents in his life either. That felt overwhelmingly sad, on top of everything else.

**Sam:** So you'd worked out the practical side — how you'd manage without that support. But there's also the emotional side, being mothered yourself, not just the physical help. How was that for you — not having that emotional support from your own mother?

**Laura:** Such a great question. No matter how old we are, we're always children — we've always needed a mother to help us feel loved and safe, and that's true whatever our age. Now that we're mothers ourselves, we know our little ones will always be our children too. I felt like I needed my mum — I needed a cuddle, I needed someone to tell me it was going to be okay, that I'd got this, that they were proud of me. I really needed that, and it was very much lost for me in those early phases.

It felt like even if that reassurance came from someone else, it wouldn't be enough. Even now, whenever I achieve something or feel proud of myself, I think of them, and I hope they'd be proud — and I know they would be. There's something about having them there to tell you, to make you feel seen and nurtured and loved. We all need that, no matter how old we are.

**Sam:** We definitely do. I think that's where motherhood shines a light on this — we're taught to be independent and strong, and you said you used control as a coping strategy after losing your parents. You've always been driven and ambitious, and we feel like we've succeeded in that part of our lives — the career — and then motherhood strips us right back to our rawness, our vulnerability. How did that play out for you — being that strong, independent woman who knew what she wanted, and then having this baby who cried constantly with colic and allergies, while also realising you hadn't dealt with the loss of your parents? How did that manifest?

**Laura:** I felt completely out of control. Everything I'd aimed for, and functioned well at — keeping things as controlled and "perfect" as I felt I needed to be — was no longer an option, because planning and control aren't possible when you're dealing with another human being with their own ideas. There's no ability to stay in control in motherhood; you're surrounded by the unknown and uncertainty. It's probably the biggest time in anyone's life where you feel completely out of control — and when the coping strategy of staying controlled isn't possible, it adds even more to that sense of feeling lost, not knowing who you are, because everything that had carried you through life so far wasn't saving you anymore.

Would I get through this? You take each day as it comes — you don't have a choice. Some days would be okay, the next completely different, no rhyme or reason to it. I think it's the biggest opportunity and challenge any mother faces — learning to go with the flow when you're someone who likes control. That's really, really hard.

**Sam:** It certainly is — it shows us we're not really in control of our lives, even though we have that illusion. So take us through what happened next. You were in the throes of overwhelm, a newborn, allergies, questioning yourself, feeling isolated, not getting the response you needed from other mums, no parents to lean on, grief resurfacing. How did you move forward? Did you find anyone who could mother you, or help you feel supported?

**Laura:** Things did get easier. There's a reason sleep deprivation is used as a form of torture — I really struggled with it, like most mothers do. As Owen got a little older and started sleeping longer stretches, I had a bit more space and energy to do things outside of motherhood again — see friends, go out for a meal, talk about things other than children. It was a breath of fresh air, because I'd felt so suffocated — looking after Owen, going to baby groups, talking about babies constantly. Once I separated myself a little from that and nurtured other parts of myself, I started to feel more like myself again.

But there was still this search for meaning — I still didn't really know who I was. Then one night, when Owen was about ten months old, my husband James came home from work, and I went upstairs for a bath — I needed some space, something for myself. I was lying in the bath listening to a podcast episode — the Motherkind podcast [?], with a woman called Amy Taylor-Cabel [?] — and she was talking about something called matrescence. I remember thinking, oh my God, this is what I've been experiencing. This makes sense of everything I've been asking myself. This is a thing. There's a word for it. There's nothing wrong with me.

It let me finally externalise my experience, after internalising it for so long and thinking something was wrong with me. I sent that episode to every mum friend I had, whatever stage their children were at, saying "you just need to listen to this." One of my closest friends listened to it, and started talking to me about how challenging she'd found motherhood too. We connected — we'd been doing the "oh I'm fine, how are you, yeah I'm fine" thing, and we both realised we were pretending, both really struggling with mothering in our own unique ways. We started talking about deeper things — what it actually meant to be a mother, the conversations I'd been craving.

Together we joined an online programme that Amy runs [?], to understand our own journeys through matrescence better, and to help others do the same. Through that I started to find my tribe — people who really got me, where I could be truly myself and talk about my real experience of motherhood without being judged. I realised I'd been searching for that my whole life — people I could be completely, authentically myself with, and be loved and accepted for who I was, without moulding myself to fit in.

I also gave myself space to ask: why did I actually become a mother? Was it just what you do at a certain point in life — had I fallen into a social norm, an expectation? I began to realise that mothering a baby was so hard for me because I never became a mum because I wanted a baby — I wanted a family. I wanted more than just me and James. And in the traditional sense, you have to have a baby to have a family. I recognised I'd never particularly liked babies — "let me hold your baby" was never something I wanted. That's not because I wasn't meant to be a mother; it's just not where my connection to Owen started. As he's grown into himself, as his personality has come through, the more I love my role as his mother, and the more I recognise why I was meant to be one.

The more I connected with people who fully accepted me, the more confident I became in recognising that all those messages — you won't want to go back to work, you'll enjoy every moment — were an illusion, true for some people but not for me, and that not fitting that mould didn't mean I wasn't meant to be a mother. So I decided: I'll mother my way. I started figuring out what worked for me, for Owen, for our family — knowing we were parenting in isolation, without much support. We had to let go of things that didn't matter and focus on what did. I thought hard about what was actually important to me as a mother, what my values were, and let go of the rest — recognising I'm more than a mother. I love my career, my job, my friends, myself — and honouring every part of me meant I could teach my son that whoever he is, however he wants to show up in the world, is enough.

It's been multifaceted, but it started with making meaning of my experience, and connecting with people who got it and fully accepted me — which is genuinely hard to find. Growing up, especially at school, we're conditioned to fit in. Finding who you actually are outside of that is a lifelong journey — we're always evolving, always settling more into ourselves, recognising: you're okay just as you are.

**Sam:** I love that, Laura — I love the conviction in your voice when you talk about yourself. You said "I love myself," and we so rarely hear that, especially from a woman. It brings up a lot for people, because it can feel uncomfortable to say — or to hear — with all the negative baggage attached to "she loves herself, she's full of herself." But it's such a different experience of life when you do love and honour and accept yourself. There's no final destination, it's ongoing — but I love hearing that. I hope listeners take courage from it, if they don't love who they are right now, or question themselves, or feel they're not enough — that you can get to a place of really looking inside at who you are, and finding people who accept you for it. What does embracing who you are actually give you? How does that show up day to day, week to week?

**Laura:** Such a good question, and it feels amazing. I'll be honest — we all carry insecurities, and even now, feeling much more self-assured, there are still times I question myself, because life throws curveballs, different phases bring different experiences. But when I really settle into it, when I slow down enough to listen — and I think that's essential to finding who you truly are — slowing down stops the busyness of life from letting you act in alignment with who you want to be, and what kind of parent you want to be.

Slowing down came to me through becoming a mother. Before that, I ran my life at a hundred miles an hour, and I think that stopped me discovering who I was — another coping mechanism, really, because there was a fear of what might come up if I slowed down, that I'd need to process my grief. When you slow down — journaling, which is so powerful for getting your thoughts and feelings down and making sense of what's going on; meditating; just being, not doing, listening to what feels right — day by day you become more aware, closer to who you authentically are, not who anyone else says you should be.

The Covid lockdowns played a real part in that journey too, and in recognising I had people in my life I was moulding myself to fit in with — not their fault, just a pattern I'd fallen into, because one of my biggest fears is losing people I care about — [connection dropped briefly] —

Right, sorry — I became aware that one of my biggest fears is losing people I care about, and being alone. I'd mould myself to fit in because I didn't want to lose people — if I lost them, maybe I'd lose everyone, and be left alone. It dates back to losing my parents. Recognising that fear was a big part of learning I was okay as I was, that I'd already found my tribe — people who accepted me fully — and being okay with being on my own. I felt better being authentically myself than holding onto people I didn't connect with on a deeper level. I really struggle with small talk — the weather, all those boring topics — which is probably why I do the work I do; I love hearing people's real stories, the real meaning behind them. A big part of how I've come to love myself has been facing my fears, understanding where they come from, and letting go of relationships and things that weren't serving me — which gave me room to grow and discover who I was.

**Sam:** Thank you, Laura. The way you share this is so beautiful — losing your parents has clearly had a profound effect on you, and continues to, right through into your mothering, from newborn days to now. Not having processed that grief, and then recognising this real fear of losing people — we've spoken separately about how that's shown up with Owen, and that might be really important for anyone listening who's also lost family or close relatives, and how that shows up in how they parent their own children. Could you talk a bit about the fear of losing people, and how it's shown up as anxiety around Owen — and maybe James too?

**Laura:** Yes, definitely. This connects to what I said earlier about control being one of my coping strategies — and this fear of losing people really showed up in early motherhood, and honestly even beyond that first year, in the years before we had Owen too. My fear was losing the most important people in my life, so I'd get intrusive thoughts and images of awful things happening to my husband or to Owen. Even now — if we've got childcare sorted and my husband and I go off and do something together, there've been times, driving somewhere, where I've had intrusive thoughts about us having a terrible accident and Owen being left without his parents.

It manifested as these intrusive thoughts and images of things I really feared happening, and I'd sometimes avoid things to try to prevent them. I knew it came from fear, and having the benefit of being a therapist myself, I knew what it was and why it was there — and I knew I didn't want to feed it, didn't want to make the fear bigger by avoiding things, as if that made the fear more true. Just because I thought it didn't mean it was going to happen. But I do remember excessively checking that Owen was breathing — that got easier as he got older. Any horror story I heard, I'd think, right, that's definitely going to happen to us, so I need to do everything I can to stop it. I won't repeat any of them — I don't want to put them in anyone's head. That's the thing about becoming a parent, you only hear the horror stories. Our brains are designed to help protect our children, so of course they make us hyper-attentive to threat.

Interestingly, the more present I've become, the more I've faced that fear head-on — my fear of loss, which of course is still there; of course I don't want awful things to happen to the people I care about — but it's not as intense now. And it's probably worth sharing why: I had a miscarriage with our second pregnancy, at ten weeks. I remember being so anxious about the possibility of loss beforehand — I talked to you, Sam, and to a couple of other friends about it, and it took over, it was overwhelming. And then my fear came true — I lost our baby. It was awful, physically and emotionally. And I remember realising that no matter how anxious I'd been, no matter how much I'd thought about how awful it would be, it didn't make the pain any less. Anxiety doesn't make bad things easier — worrying doesn't prepare you, doesn't soften the emotional experience when it actually happens. So you might as well live in the moment, rather than pre-living all the horrible things that could happen.

It ended up being a genuinely healing experience, in a strange way — because when I lost my parents at eighteen, I had no idea how to process grief, and I just avoided it. With the miscarriage, I fully embraced how I felt, let myself feel whatever came up. It was really challenging, and nothing made the process easy — but it surprised me how I moved through that grief, by actually paying attention to my pain and my loss. I processed it in what felt like a remarkably short time, compared to how long I'd been holding on to the loss of my parents. It really taught me that you can't prepare for bad things — if they're going to be bad, they'll be bad, and when they happen, you just have to go through them. You come out the other side, and it makes you stronger, because you realise you can cope, you've got the ability to get through tough times.

**Sam:** Thank you, Laura — for raising another topic that's so sadly common, and how devastating and challenging that must have been, adding another layer of grief onto everything you'd already carried. Grief from a loss like that never fully goes away — but you said you hadn't really processed the grief of losing your parents. Did moving through the loss of your second baby help you process that earlier grief? I know they're not the same, but grief can feel similar across different losses. Are you still processing that now, compared to before, when you said you'd pushed it down and suppressed it?

**Laura:** Yes — it made me really aware that I needed to move through my emotional experience of losing my parents properly. It had been on my mind for a while; I knew I wanted to find someone for counselling and support. I was conscious I wanted to get it right — this was a big deal, and I didn't want it to go wrong and put me off. I didn't want to go through the NHS, because I didn't want to be limited by a set number of sessions; I wanted someone I really trusted. I looked around and found a counsellor whose style just felt right. I now realise — though it wasn't a conscious choice at the time — that she's very nurturing, very maternal. I think I wanted a mother figure to help me through my grief.

I processed it all, and so much came up — sadness, anger. My grief and my longing for them had been overshadowing the fact that they weren't perfect — nobody is. There were things in my own childhood that weren't great, a really loving, supportive family, but still things missing that I'm conscious of now in my own parenting, things I want to do differently. My grief and my wanting them back had been masking my ability to process those experiences too — I think because I was scared, I loved them so much, I didn't want to think badly of them, I just wanted them in my life. But working through all of that in counselling helped me process my grief at a much deeper level.

And now, interestingly, I actually feel more connected to my parents. I know they're not here, not on this physical planet — but I feel that they're around, in whatever belief system you hold to, watching what I achieve, proud of me. When I sit in stillness and just allow myself to be, I recognise they're always around me, always within me, part of me — they've never really gone away. That brings me real comfort.

**Sam:** Wow — that's really profound. You can hear the emotion in my voice. The realisation of how much pain you were carrying, masked by grief — and then that pain resurfacing, and them not being here for you to ask those questions of. How courageous it is to be so vulnerable and to process all of this. And now, the way you talk about your parents being with you, being proud of you — what a beautiful presence to have in your life. Thank you for sharing all of that with us.

I want to finish our conversation talking about what thriving in motherhood looks like for you today — some tangible examples. I always think that surrounding ourselves with other mothers who are looking after themselves and thriving gives us inspiration and courage, and gives us permission to talk about what that brings up for us too. So tell us about the things you do daily, weekly, monthly — whatever the rhythm is — that help you feel good, give you space, and help you thrive in motherhood.

**Laura:** Isn't that what we all want — to thrive, in life and in motherhood? What a world it would be if more of us felt able to do that, and felt confident doing it. We talked earlier about being happy with who you are, and I think a really big part of it is recognising — for me, and for anyone listening — that I know I'm a good mum. I'm a genuinely amazing mum. I'm not perfect, by any stretch, and nobody is. I make mistakes, I own up to them, I apologise, I forgive myself, I'm human. There's real learning in that for my son too — that it's okay not to be perfect. Just knowing I'm doing my best is enough. I'm his hero, his best friend, so he tells me, and that's enough for me. My non-negotiable is: as long as he feels loved each day he's alive on this planet, I've done enough. Everything else is gravy, garnish. On the days I've got a lot on, if he's safe and he's loved, that's enough.

I try to keep coming back to my values as my internal compass — what's important to me across every part of my life — and try to move towards balance between them, even though that's not always possible; it shifts depending on what phase of motherhood, or life, you're in. Going self-employed was a really big part of that for me — being able to work the hours I choose, stepping away from a high-pressure, target-driven environment that meant I was giving everything of myself to other people and nothing to me or my son. That balance was completely off. Being self-employed let me bring my love for my job and my own development back into balance — recognising my needs matter too, that I have to look after myself in order to be my best for the people who matter to me. Owen and James are the most important people in my life, alongside my closest friends, who I genuinely think of as family. So it's about asking: how can I live as much as possible in alignment with everything and everyone that's important to me?

I also ask, day to day: what do I need right now? What does Owen need right now? Recognising that changes moment to moment, and being able to notice where the pressure is building and let some of it off. One unashamed example: during Covid, when nobody could go abroad, or nobody wanted to risk it, we booked a holiday to Cornwall. I've always hated the drive to Cornwall — I can't do anything on a long car journey, it makes me feel ill, whereas on a train or plane you can at least do things. My husband suggested I fly down and meet them there. My first instinct was "I can't do that" — and then I caught myself and thought, why not? He'd essentially just given me permission, and it would make a real difference — a little mini-holiday before and after, some time to myself, and it worked well for James too, who got to listen to whatever he wanted on the drive and have some time with Owen. So I did it. I took what I needed, in a way that didn't come at Owen's or James's expense, and it was amazing.

Something worth remembering here: if you choose to do things your own way, not everyone is going to get it. Some people will question your decisions — that doesn't mean you've made the wrong choice. I remember telling a good friend about the Cornwall plan, and she said, "oh my God, you're such a horrible person" — I don't think she'd really thought about how that landed. She's quite environmentally conscious, and flying isn't great for that, and I could feel the judgement in it. But I recognised: that's her stuff, not mine. It doesn't mean I made the wrong decision — it was the right one for me, my son, and my family, because looking after my needs is part of looking after his. So it always comes back to: what feels right for me, for Owen, for our family — and accepting that not everyone will get it, and that's okay.

Communication has been really key too — I think this is true for any new family with a baby. Your time and energy are so much more limited, so you have to get clearer about what you need and communicate that with your partner and the people around you, while also recognising what they need, and constantly working out what's best for the whole family dynamic. And staying intuitive — trusting your gut, trusting that you actually do know what's best for you and your family. That knowledge often just gets buried under expectation, pressure, stress, overwhelm. When you create space away from the noise, and actually ask yourself what you need, and listen to the answer, and give yourself that — or schedule it in when you can — it gives you so much freedom to be who you want to be. That's a place of real joy, peace, contentment — and it gives you the chance to thrive, as an individual, as a woman, as a mother. It's a gift you give yourself, a gift you give your child, and honestly, a gift you give the world.

**Sam:** That's huge — that realisation, coming back to your friend's comment, recognising "that's her stuff, not mine." I think most of us spend years doing or not doing things because of what other people might say or think, and it can feel confrontational, because it goes against a lot of the conditioning we grow up with. But you describe that so beautifully — recognising what's yours and what isn't, and doing what you need, and how that translates into actually living a life where you're thriving. It does get easier, doesn't it?

**Laura:** It does. And that's also why you need your tribe — because there will still be times when doing something feels uncomfortable, and it helps to bounce that off people who get it, who are in a similar place.

**Sam:** Thank you for those examples — I think it really helps to hear specifics, so we can see where in our own lives we might do the same. Laura, I'll finish with one last question I ask all my guests: if that younger version of you — the overwhelmed new mother, grieving her parents all over again, questioning everything, wanting answers, feeling lost and isolated — were standing in front of you now, what would you say to her?

**Laura:** I'd say: I know this is tough. I know this is really, really hard. But you are doing an awesome job — even though it doesn't feel like it right now — and motherhood is going to be the making of you.

**Sam:** Wow. That's so beautiful — and so has this whole conversation been, Laura. You talk so eloquently, and so openly and honestly, about all of it, and I know listeners will really appreciate everything you've shared today. Laura works in the motherhood space herself — she's a psychotherapist who recently left the NHS to set up her own private practice. Laura, let everyone know where they can find you — I'll also put the details in the show notes.

**Laura:** Yes — you can find me through my website, LauraGreenwoodTherapy.com [?]. I specialise in supporting mothers into and through that transition, helping them find their own way of mothering, clear the noise, and find who they truly are, so they can live the life they love and love themselves — because I think everyone deserves that. I honestly believe it's a gift we can each give the world, because when we look after our own needs, it makes things better for everyone around us, including our children. I also specialise in trauma — I think we've all experienced it in some form — and helping people move through it to live the life they want and deserve. People can find me via my website, and I try to be reasonably active on social media — Laura Greenwood Therapy on Facebook and Instagram. I'd love to hear from anyone who wants to reach out or ask a question.

**Sam:** Thank you so much, Laura — this has been amazing.

**Laura:** Thanks, Sam.